By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 1/29/08

Because the light has to be coming from somewhere,
The sky being evenly spread with a pallid overcast
And dawn two hours distant, and everything
Slightly a-pulse with an inner glow.
Could it be that this hour is an entity,
Like one of those self-illuminating oddities
Who live in the Benthal realms of the deepest seas,
Our thoughts the drifting detritus of its food?
Its wondrous precision of movement reminds us
Of these. The hour is alive, and we have awakened
Inside of its aliveness as eccentrics being digested
In its belly, the cilia of our breathing a locomotion
That moves us deeper, but deeper into what?
Now we realize that every hour has been leading
Down to this one, and that our whole lives
Have been a dive into a physicality of experience
That can never resolve its struggles in any sleep,
And that here, here alone, in this aberration’s gut,
In a lightless trench on the floor of this frigid ocean,
We have come upon the completely alien angel:
Imagination, and it is this awakening into strangeness
That we have been striving incessantly to attain,
As if our disappearance was all that we’d ever desired.

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